_Cla._ Your fathers too were Men? _Jul._ Without doubt Lady. _Cla._ And without such it is impossible We could have been. _Hip._ A sin against nature to deny it. _Cla._ Nor can you or I have any hope to be a Mother, Without the help of Men. _Cro._ Impossible. _Cla._ Which of you then most barbarous, that knew You from a man had Being, and owe to it The name of parent, durst presume to kill The likeness of that thing by which you are? Whose Arrowes made these wounds? speak, or by _Dian_ Without distinction I'll let fly at ye all. _Jul._ Not mine. _Hip._ Nor mine. _Cro._ 'Tis strange to see her mov'd thus. Restrain your fury Madam; had we kill'd him, We had but perform'd your Mothers command. _Cla._ But if she command unjust and cruel things, We are not to obey it. _Cro._ We are innocent; some storm did cast Him shipwrackt on the shore, as you see wounded: Nor durst we be Surgeons to such Your Mother doth appoint for death. _Cla._ Weak excuse; Where's pity? Where's soft compassion? cruel, and ungrateful Did providence offer to your charity But one poor Subject to express it on, And in't to shew our wants too; and could you So carelessly neglect it? _Hip._ For ought I know, he's living yet; And may tempt your Mother, by giving him succor. _Cla._ Ha, come near I charge ye. So, bend his body softly; rub his temples; Nay, that shall be my office: how the red Steales into his pale lips! run and fetch the simples With which my Mother heal'd my arme When last I was wounded by the Bore. _Cro._ Doe: but remember her to come after ye, That she may behold her daughters charity. _Cla._ Now he breathes; [_Exit_ Hippolita. The ayr passing through the _Arabian_ groves Yields not so sweet an odour: prethee taste it; Taste it good _Crocale_; yet I envy thee so great a blessing; 'Tis not sin to touch these Rubies, is it? _Jul._ Not, I think. _Cla._ Or thus to live _Camelion_ like? I could resign my essence to live ever thus. O welcome; raise him up Gently. Some soft hand Bound up these wounds; a womans hair. What fury For which my ignorance does not know a name, Is crept into my bosome? But I forget. _Enter_ Hippolita. My pious work. Now if this juyce hath power, Let it appear; his eyelids ope: Prodigious! Two Suns break from these Orbes. _Alb._ Ha, Where am I? What new vision's this? To what Goddess do I owe this second life? Sure thou art more than mortal: And any Sacrifice of thanks or duty In poor and wretched man to pay, comes short Of your immortal bounty: but to shew I am not unthankful, th[u]s in humility I kiss the happy ground you have made sacred, By bearing of your weight.